


Death, Be Not Proud

by galoots



Series: Loots Duck Universe (LDU) [1]
Category: Disney Duck Universe, Disney Ducks (Comics)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Mentions of Death, Mentions of infant illnesses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-04
Updated: 2021-01-04
Packaged: 2021-03-15 01:21:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28555308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/galoots/pseuds/galoots
Summary: Scrooge struggles with the twin issues of the recent loss of his sister and the child he now finds under his care. Luckily for him, he's not as alone as he thinks he is.
Relationships: Donald Duck & Duckworth, Donald Duck & Scrooge McDuck, Duckworth & Scrooge, pre-relationship Duckworth/Scrooge
Series: Loots Duck Universe (LDU) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1318364
Comments: 3
Kudos: 22





	Death, Be Not Proud

Scrooge was a hard worker.

That had always been true. But ever since the untimely death of his sister and her husband, his resolve to work had strengthened tenfold. He spent every moment he could focused on work. For any time not spent on work or caring for Donald was a moment he spent mired in grief.

Far better to work himself to the bone, then to stop and feel, for even a moment, the terrible loss he’d suffered.

And Donald, poor Donald. Only a babe and no mother or father to hold him. All that was left was a sad sack excuse of an uncle to look after him now. And clearly one that was failing in his parental duties. Every night Donald had spent in his uncle’s care, the baby had slept fitfully, waking up in the middle of the night with a heart-wrenching cry that ripped Scrooge from his own restless sleep.

Tonight’s awakening sent Scrooge tumbling from his bed and onto the floor. Panicked and tangled in his bedsheets, Scrooge neglected donning his housecoat and sprinted to his babe in only the thin nightshirt he wore to bed.

The halls of his home felt longer at night, cloaked in darkness, and keeping him away from his distressed child. Reaching Donald’s room after what felt like an eternity, Scrooge threw open the door to the hastily arranged nursery.

Donald was lying in his crib. Right where he’d left him. But he’d become unswaddled with his thrashing and his tiny fists were balled up by his side. The boy’s face was red and tear streaked.

Scrooge had yet to decipher the various coded cries of his nephews in a short stint as a parent. What was wrong? Was he hungry? In pain? Colicky? Upset? How was Scrooge to tell the difference? Hortense would have known what was wrong.

_Did he miss his mom?_

The thought stung Scrooge. Hortense was the one thing Scrooge couldn’t be for Donald. No matter how hard he tried.

He laid a gentle hand on Donald’s forehead— _feverish._ A spike of fear struck Scrooge’s gut and sent a chill through his body. His baby was sick. With what? The parenting books Scrooge had been voraciously reading flashed through his mind. What illness could it be? A cold? Pneumonia? Croup? Influenza? Something worse?

Meningitis, perhaps? Infants were susceptible to the bacterial infection. It could _kill_ his child. Or, at the very least, result in long-term damage. Terrifying phrases paraded around his mind like bogeymen in the night. Febrile seizures danced hand in hand with Reye’s syndrome, heel-toeing a terrifying tarantella to erratic music. The minor devils of dehydration and colic thrust their pitchforks into Scrooge’s heart. Jaundice, with its sickly yellow skin, rasped a haunting laugh—its crackled skin heaving with each exhalation. Behind them all loomed the ashen figure of Death. Its face was obscured by a gauzy veil, but still Scrooge could feel its empty sunken-eyed gaze upon him, and its ever-gnashing teeth were hungry for more.

Scrooge gripped in his child in his arms. What was he supposed to do? He couldn’t _do_ anything. For all the power of his position in the realm of business, he still found himself helpless. The walls were closing in around him, suffocating him. Hortense would have known what to do. Hortense would have known what to do! Soon those words were all Scrooge could focus on. 

In an instant, everything caught up with Scrooge. The stress, the pain, the sleepless nights—all the things he had tried to push down so deep it couldn’t disturb him, came rushing up. A well dislodged inside him and tears poured from his eyes. He buried his face in the boy’s stomach.

“Please, please, Donald.” He needed him to be ok. “You’re all I have left,” he sobbed.

Tears soaked into the soft cotton of Donald’s onesie. “You’re the only important thing left in my life.”

“Ok, well, that’s sort of rude.” A voice commented. It cut through Scrooge’s panic with sharp-edged annoyance.

“Duckworth?” Scrooge scrubbed away his tears.

“Excuse me if I take that a little personally, Scrooge.” Duckworth, looking well put together even in the early hours of the morn, stood in the doorway with a disapproving frown.

“I didn’t—I didn’t mean—I mean I didn’t know you were—”

Duckworth shushed him. He turned on the lights and swept into the room. Like always, Duckworth exerted a calm graceful influence over the room, straightening bits and bobs as he moved effortlessly towards him. Duckworth slipped a woolen blanket over Scrooge’s shoulders before easing the child from his grasp. Scrooge hadn’t even realized he’d been shivering.

“Was I expected to sleep through that bombastic display of our little one’s vocal abilities?” Duckworth soothingly stroked Donald’s mussed up feathers and brushed away tears. “I’d say we need not worry about his lung capacity! I could hear Donald crying from my quarters. Quite the voice you’ve got on you, poppet. Right good. Give them hell, I say.”

Duckworth’s calming presence had shaken Scrooge from his panic, but it hadn’t dispelled it entirely. Scrooge clutched at the blanket on his shoulders with white-knuckled ferocity. “The boy, Donald, he’s sick, Duckworth. He’s sick.”

Duckworth smiled benevolently at his long-time friend. “Breathe, Scrooge. Everything will be ok.”

Scrooge took a shaky breath. “What do we do?”

“First of all, let’s not panic. We can take care of this. Second, we take his temperature. If it’s under 102 degrees, its probably not a cause for alarm. We’ll check for symptoms and call the pediatrician to relay our discoveries. In the meantime, we can dress him in lighter clothing and feed him some formula, so he stays hydrated.”

“But, but…” That all seemed so reasonable, yet Scrooge stoked his own anxieties out of habit. “He seemed so upset! Surely something must be terribly wrong?”

Duckworth chuckled. “He has a slight fever and he’s fussy, Scrooge. Let’s not invent problems where there are none.” He slid the boy back into Scrooge’s arms. “Have a seat in the rocking chair, alright? I think the two of you could use some calming.”

Exhausted, Scrooge sank into the seat of the offered chair. He rocked back and forth for his own benefit as much as Donald’s. As the two calmed down, Duckworth left the room to gather the necessary items.

Donald’s cries slowly abated as he was rocked. He looked up at his uncle curiously with tears still lingering in his eyes. He reached out an uncoordinated hand towards his caretaker and stroked his face. If Scrooge didn’t know any better, he’d say it was almost like the boy was trying to tell him everything would be ok.

That was ridiculous thought, but Scrooge cradled the tiny hand in his own, pressing it reverently to his face. He wasn’t sure how long they stayed like that for time slowed as he gazed at his nephew. For the first time since his frightened awakening, he felt his churning mind pause. Maybe even for the first time since he’d received the awful news of his sister’s passing.

In this moment, there was only the two of them. In this moment, Scrooge felt the pain of his loss in full. Beneath the anxieties, fear, and panic, grief throbbed like an old wound reopening.

“Hortense and Quackmore… They’re… They’re gone.” His voice caught on the last note, hitching in his throat, almost too painful to leave.

“I know.” Duckworth stood in the doorway; his arms filled with the various items they needed to treat Donald. Tears pooled in Duckworth’s eyes as he remembered his lost friends. “And we’ll always miss them.”

Scrooge hadn’t noticed his friend’s return. He’d spoken the words to himself, finally admitting what he’d lost. “But Donald, he’s… he’s all alone.”

“He has us now.”

“What if we’re not enough?” Scrooge asked, his eyes searching Duckworth’s with desperation for all the answers he didn’t have.

“We will be.”

Tears flowed free and easy from Scrooge’s eyes. This time unburdened by the weight he’d used to sink them down deep inside of him. In this room were the only two people Scrooge felt could be permitted this vulnerability. “Are you scared?”

Duckworth hadn’t expected that question. “Of course.”

“But you seem so calm! Like you know everything! You didn’t even bat an eye when I told you Donald was sick!”

Duckworth closed his eyes for a moment. “I was scared.” He moved from the doorway to Scrooge’s side, pressing his weight into Scrooge’s feathery bulk. “I’m still scared.”

He traced a finger across Donald’s cheek. “But I try to keep it together. For him.” Duckworth placed a hand on Scrooge’s shoulder. “For you.”

Scrooge leaned into Duckworth’s warm body. He said nothing. He felt there was nothing left to be said. He let himself reconcile with the thought they were moving forward together. All of three of them, making unsteady steps towards the future, sharing in uncertainty, pain and loss, as well as love.

**Author's Note:**

> I had to look up some information about baby illnesses and caring for a sick infant for this chapter and it definitely did not help with all the targeted ads for baby items I’ve been getting. Google please, I don’t have a real baby, just a fictional one.   
> Please comment if you enjoyed this!


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